


The Future Kings Of Nowhere

by Theboys



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, Graphic Depictions of Illness, M/M, Pre-Series, Scared Dean, Scared Sam, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-23
Updated: 2015-10-23
Packaged: 2018-04-27 03:23:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,003
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5031877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Theboys/pseuds/Theboys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the things he was taught to fear, why'd no one ever warn him about this?</p><p>In which Sam reads (struggles through) a book series about an orphan girl, discovers the Black Thing, and understands that he's only been pretending to see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from the band, The Future Kings of Nowhere.  
> All excerpts belong to, A Wrinkle In Time, and Anne of the Island, respectively.
> 
> This is not a death!fic.

Sam first reads Anne of Green Gables when he’s twelve years old.

Took him four days to get through it, three days off his average, because he spent the majority of the time reading it when he was tucked in the black corner of the Impala, legs crushed up underneath him like bags of sand. It’s hard to see individual words by the no-light, but this is a girl’s book.

Dean’s driving, first legal year, been driving since he was twelve, same as Sam now.

There’s no more books to read, and they’re not yet in a new town, where Dean can pilfer them from dusty bookshops, layer of ignorance and mothballs, offering-tight in Dean’s greasy hands.

“Keeps you from whining back there, Sammy.” Dean told him, when he first asked why, eight years old, Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH freshly tucked in his backpack, Superman, that year, because Dean had already said there couldn’t be two Batmans.

Why was that, Sam thought. He thought Batman was alone a lot more often than he needed to be.

Doesn’t understand what would make him go off into the night, loneliness wrapped ‘round him so sharp it was like a shroud, kept him tethered to the ground, and Sam finds that strange, cause bats can fly.

But Dean’s been stuffing creased pages into his pockets, stretched-wide hoodies and backpacks, all the way down one pair of jeans before, too. But that was only one instance.

Sam’s current favorite book was A Wrinkle In Time, and he’d only read it once, at Winslow Elementary School, in Maine.

He read it when he was six, so ahead of his class that his teacher didn’t know what else to do with him, and it was on Ms. Daniels’ desk. Her daughter was in fifth grade; she was already reading the novel.

Sam had forgotten about it until he’d seen it in a store-window, Children’s Classic Literature display, tripped over his own feet when Dean pulled him, stumbling past. Eight years old and he cried, snot-trapped tears big enough to splatter Dean’s Marillion t-shirt.

So, Dean steals it. He’s Batman, remember?

Batman always gets the job done, and maybe it’s not as pretty as Superman might have packaged it, but Sam thinks that sometimes things go a little bit squirrelly, but that’s alright, as long as you try. Sam’s so good at trying. He’s not quite accustomed to failure.

But that’s cause Dean makes him do it over and over again until he knows the way, inside and backwards, crippled and hollowed out, but he’s _flying,_ because he always could, in the end.

Charles Wallace Murray is a little of what Sam wants to be, when he grows up, he thinks. He wants to know so much he never knows enough, but he’s not sure how to get there. He’ll never be able to communicate with anything bigger than himself, and the only person who understands him as is, is Dean. Dean’s already locked up so hot he burns a little, but Sam knows what that’s like.

So Dean gets it when Sam tells him that he’s got to read about the Black Thing, just one last time, and maybe it’s like the The Thing That Happened.

Dean’s face twists up, uncomfortable-like, breath stuttering twice because he says four different things to Sam every time Sam brings it up.

Makes Sam sticky-angry because he’s careful about saying it, knows it’s not something that you mention off-handedly, learned that when he was six too, it was a year of firsts.

First time he ever realized moms made lunches, swaddled post-it notes with happy faces tucked into sunshine-corners.

Tells Dean about it when his brother picks him up at his classroom door, paper-cutout of a tree-frog in his right fist, and does Dean know if it’s a secret club, a thing moms do?

Variation Number One.

“Ah, Sammy, what’re you going on about? Shuddup, will you?” Not meanly, Dean never says things aggressively unless they’re actually fighting, piss-mad, fists punch-tight and locked against sides. Twitching for the brawl, but Dean’s never swung out first, and that makes Sam the _asshole._

Sam doesn’t ask again, not for a few more years. So, Dean steals the book, grins, cocky and broken, splintered into so many pieces that Sam will always wonder how he never saw it when he was a child. How he never figured out what Dean was when he was younger. Modge-podge him back together with china-doll fingertips and a side too much heart.

Sam reads it from cover to cover, til the anticipation of Charles Wallace Murray’s confrontation with the Black Thing feels like his own, he can recite the words.

(Later, when Sam re-reads it, he’ll remember something different, he’ll be more crooked, less Charles and more Black, and it will wound him deeply.)

And so, when Sam’s twelve, and he first reads Anne of Green Gables, they don’t understand him, the regular kids in all his classes, except for the other Accelerated ones, but who are they to matter? The other kids poke fun, Sam remembers to remember.

_Thinking I’m a moron gives people something to feel smug about. Why should I disillusion them?_

And Sam’s twelve, thinks he gets it, really, doesn’t he? Charles Wallace is so good, so sharp and scathing, that it _can’t_ matter, and so it doesn’t.

Sam will be obliged to concede this point to Dean, when he opens his eyes in a few more years, accepts what it means to really understand how to see. He’ll be seeing for years and years before he recalls being blind.

So, Sam reads about Anne Shirley while he’s clothed in darkness, and it’s more difficult, yes, but he would like to get through this book before Dean starts hassling him about it. It’s gotten good, and even though he thinks that maybe Gilbert Blythe isn’t so bad, he respects Anne’s ability to not give a fuck over whether she’s rational, or not.

Maybe her hair is Dean’s freckles, and Sam’s seen him get into fights over worse. She’s a bit melodramatic, but he understands not having a mother, and she’s done alright, all things considered.

He finishes the book, well into the third hour of a five hour trip, realizes that there’s an entire saga dedicated to Anne’s life, and thinks to himself about whether or not it’s worth the completion. (He’s going to do so regardless, he’s never half-assed anything in all his life. He thinks that’s the link that tethers him, dirty-pretty, to his father and brother.)

Dean’s got No Quarter playing real low, but he’s tapping his closed fist against the wheel in time with the beat, and if Sam strains, he can hear Dean singing along. Sam’s always astounded at how high his brother’s voice goes, too quiet to carry the way it’s meant to.

Sam knows Dean’s so silent because he thinks Sam’s asleep, and Sam’s happy to let him keep thinking that. Dad’s miles ahead of them, Dean keeps maps in his head, same as Sam, no point in them getting lost if they can’t tail the F-150 fast enough.

When Sam is sixteen, he’ll remember this, recall the way they fit together, Heaven and Hell, and how he never appreciated it the way he was supposed to. When his body has filled out, less gangly than he should be at that age, because John _runs_ him, and Dean dances around him, sparring.

He’ll be well oiled and dependable, sharp cut of abs astonishing, even to himself. Darker facial hair than his brother, and he’s gotta shave all the damn time.

Dean thinks it’s funny, pale-blonde strands scattered across his face, cause Dean can grow a fine beard, just takes him longer than two days to do so. Sam’s taller by now, by two inches, and when he lets his hair grow out, coarse and curly, over dagger cheekbones, people take notice.

They think Sam’s the elder, ask him how old his little brother is.

Sam snorts, because if people paid even a little bit of attention, they’d know. They’d understand that it could never be any way but how it turned out.

Sam makes it a point to try out for (and make) every basketball team at every school they send him to. He’s wicked sharp, point guard, because he’s taller than God, Dean hisses, bright-early in the morning, but he’s kind of short by basketball standards.

Phantom twitch in his legs some nights, blankets twisted around his calves so that they suffocate, and Sam thinks he might still have some growing left in him, and he curses the God that made sure he was born.

Hands span the entire circumference of a regulation basketball, palms and gestures with it, when Dean can only hold it aloft for two minutes, max.

Dean’ll whisper about it later, and will hate Sam so much for it. This will bring Sam to his knees.

They’ll still be searching after The Thing That Happened, and Sam’ll ask again, casually, because he’s fairly deep into a 24 pack of Rolling Rock that he bought, himself, thanks very much, mostly because the beard is a week strong, and Dean’s been away on a Rugaru hunt, and couldn’t forbid it.

Dean’s mostly entertained when he returns, cause Sam’s hanging off the side of the couch, long hair lolling against the dry carpet, mingling with the bleached brown of the floor.

There’s green everywhere, and Dean snakes his hand into the cardboard box and pulls two more out. He’s covered in dirt and favoring his left side, but there’s no blood, and Dean’ll take his blessings as cheap as they come.

Sam can see Dean’s eyes catalogue him, anxiety scrawled on every pore, and he probably thinks Sam’s too drunk to be able to see properly, but that’s wrong, cause if anything, he can see better. He rolls himself over, flat on his stomach and blinks, blearily up and up, til Dean’s face is tilted down.

There’s grime covering his features, scaled up on his left eyelid, and Dean rubs mulishly, but his hands are thick too, and Sam grunts out his amusement.

“They’re too fucking soft, Dean.” Sam begins mournfully, and shifts his head a little when Dean presses in beside him, too-small space Sam’s body has allotted.

Dean hums in acknowledgement.

“Who, Sammy?” Dean snorts, and his hand drops so heavily into Sam’s tangled hair that Sam knows he must be tired. Dean’s hand doesn’t so much as twitch, like he can’t work up the strength to run his fingers back and forth, knead at the taut of Sam’s scalp.

“The forest animals you been singing with while I been gone?” Dean flinches in habit when Sam reaches one uncoordinated hand back and slaps ineffectively at Dean’s left side.

“Fucking asshole,” Sam hisses, but it’s slurred, and he can see that the effect is ruined. Dean twines his fingers into the hair at the top of Sam’s head and tugs, gentle reminder.

“C’mon Einstein. What’s too soft?” Dean sounds interested in only the way he can, voice bordering on debilitation, but he’s awake and agape, and his body relaxes further into the couch, controlled hums of The Battle of Evermore loosened from his throat.

“Women, man.” Sam waves his free hand out--but then it’s the hand with the beer in it, cause he feels the lukewarm splosh over his palm, tacky sweep into the webbing of his fingers.

“Ah, Jesus, Sammy,” Dean mutters, but there’s no real emotion behind it, and Dean’s hands don’t falter. They grip a little tighter yet, then release, and Sam makes a comforted noise, low in his chest.

“They break. All of ‘em,” Sam slurs, and he’s irritated. He’s good at, and with words, forces them into capable shapes and then _abuses_ them, because he knows how to put them back to rights, afterwards. He understands them.

Dean shifts his left leg, and if Sam halts his noisy-drunk breathing, he can hear Dean swallow.

“Should I be writing this down, Sammy? We making poetry, here?” Dean’s voice is a little smoother, and Sam knows his brother’s just starting to run slightly warmer.

“Think she would’ve made it,” Sam says, too far gone, ignores the stab. “If she was stronger?” Sam’s face curls. That came out wrong. He doesn’t mean it like that. She was plenty strong. Probably every bit better than him and Dean and Dad and the Thing That Happened and the Black and all of it.

“If we made her stronger. I mean.” Sam stutters, and he’s so close to being fucking pissed, cause Dean’s not gonna understand this. It’s too late and they’re tired. Sam should’ve written it down, like he usually does. Made it better.

Dean’s still up above him, and Sam can still hear him swallowing, crinkle of aluminum in his open hand.

Number Four. Or Three. Sam guesses it doesn’t really matter.

“Wouldn’t change anything, Sammy. Dad didn’t know, I didn’t know, and you couldn’t. Still don’t.” Dean says, voice pitched all careful, for Sam or because of him, Sam can’t tell.

“Alright. Alright.”

-

Sam reads Anne of Avonlea when he’s fourteen, and he’s swinging his legs in the dingy waiting room chair, can’t tell if it’s really green or if the fluorescent lights are just messing with his head. They’re having physicals done, mostly for Sam’s benefit.

Sam needs one if he’s going to try out for the JV basketball team, (he’ll make varsity as a freshman, if it kills him in the process) and Dean doesn’t look old enough to be anything other than Sam’s brother. Dean doesn’t go to school anymore, not if he can help it, but Sam would be lying if he didn’t say he did it on purpose.

After a physical, Sam can usually cajole Dean into enrolling

_coupla months, Dean. Good to have a cover._

But Sam’s intent on finishing the series this year, because he’s getting older, and slightly more irritated with how Anne doesn’t seem to understand that Gil isn’t doing anything for her out of solely platonic friendship.

He snorts at her naivete. (It’ll be a few years down the line when he realizes that denial and ignorance have the same flavor).

He agrees that Davy’s got a shit ton more spunk than Dora, kind of wants to punt-kick her across the farm, but as he completes this installment, he’s got a sickly kind of feeling in his stomach that the next one’s gonna have a bit more romance in it, and he’s not quite sure he can stomach that.

He can skip the paragraphs where they kiss, can’t he?

He’s fitting the book into his backpack when the door slides open, and Sam’s already had his examination, turned his head and coughed, was told his heart-rate was in the athletic range, and Sam had shrugged. Not so good at lying on the spot, not yet.

Dean’s brow looks wretched, and his eyes are narrowed. He swings Sam’s bookbag up and over his shoulder without comment, and then he’s walking, striding away, and Sam trips over his shoelaces in his hurry to keep up.

“Jesus, Dean, slow the fuck down!” Sam huffs, he’s not trying to sprain his ankles before the season even starts. He comes up short, bounces a little off of Dean’s spine, where his brother has paused, right in front of the Impala.

“You drive, Sammy.” He shoves the keys into Sam’s loose hands, and it’s only reflexes that snap Sam’s fingers taut around them, cause, what the hell?

Dean lowers his body into the passenger side, one hand braced on the hood as he pushes himself inside. Sam’s heart is hammering right on through his chest, and for one wild moment he wonders what Anne would say.

The laugh gurgling up in his throat is unwelcome but unbridled, and he watches Dean arrange the black bag in between the V of his legs, glare at Sam in irritation.

“Want me to change my mind, bitch?” The words are heavier than Sam expects, and he pulls himself together, trudges over to the driver’s side. He’s careful, but he’s been driving for two years, Dean taught him himself, and there’s no way he won’t be fine.

Dean’s hard lines next to him, fingers white-knuckled and bruised on his left knee. His leg jitters against the leather, and Dean’s looking straight ahead.

Sam takes his turns carefully, effortlessly, and later, he’ll recall this day as the future.

-

Sam makes the team. He’s a monster. Fourteen years old and 6 foot even, and it shows, jump shots and layups.

They’re congratulating him on his handles, ask if he’d like to play varsity. Don’t ask so much as simply put him on the team, and the guys are generally cool about it.

Helps that Dean’s his older brother, he’s not awkward, not really clumsy, unless he’s around Dean. Dean makes him gangly, sucks the coordination right out of his lungs and refuses to give it back.

Sam ends up beating Dean in a sparring match later that same week. Dean’s up and flushed with color, eyes burning so bright Sam thinks that they look feverish, too fucking hot to touch. His brother’s up and then suddenly his legs are tangled with Sam’s as they tumble to the ground, together.

Impact knocks the air right out of Sam’s lungs, and he braces his body over his brother’s, hovering on wiry arms, balanced easily. Dean’s cheeks are aflame, grin slicing his way across smooth features. It’s tight around the edges, fine lines, and Sam’s heart’s about to burst right out of his chest.

“Shit. Shit, Dean, did I hurt you?” His brother rolls his eyes so hard Sam knows he’s good, and Sam stumbles up and off, brushes the dirt from his legs where it clings in odd places.

If Dean’s not hurt, that means he won. He fucking pinned Dean. He doesn’t want to celebrate too much, he wouldn’t put it past Dean to take him down again, just to prove that it won’t be a regular thing, that he’ll always come out unscathed.

“Course not, you little bitch.” He curls an arm around Sam’s shoulder, digs blunt fingernails in so tight that Sam winces a bit. “Nice to see you lose with grace, Dean,” Sam murmurs, cheeky grin coloring his tone.

Dean rubs at his ribs, presses the palm of his right hand flat against them and shoves _down,_ and Sam follows him inside, can’t recall whether he actually made contact with the cage or not.

-

By the time Sam realizes, it’s been three months, and he wants to cauterize his own eyes out for not seeing. He wants to brand it onto his body so he feels it when he sleeps, when he tries to run, when he’s about to die, he can’t forget.

Dean’s changing, bathroom door halfway ajar, and it suddenly bothers Sam, the way it’s never open anymore, body sprawled across Dean’s bed, Charles Wallace is having trouble breathing.

The heel of Sam’s hand presses the door open, gentle swing, he only wants to kind of scare Dean, cause he doesn’t know how slippery it is in here, has no desire to mop up Dean’s brains from the floor.

“Oh, Jesus Christ. Oh fuck. Oh _God, Dean.”_

He’s got no filter, but he meant to be quiet. He meant to keep his fucking mouth wired shut, but then he saw everything, and he thinks that he’s dying, bare toes crunched up in dingy blue carpeting, one skinny hand wrapped around the humid doorknob.

Dean’s turn is so slow, so stiffened in pain that Sam rubs his eye raw with his open palm because he can see it all, now. Dean’s face is devoid of color, and Sam counts every single one of his ribs, can see them, flesh and bone cage for his heart.

The skin is pulled so snug across them that it must burn, and Sam can see how large Dean’s joints appear, wrists twig-sharp against manacles for hands. Dean’s knees are knobby and brittle, and his brother’s chest is concave, shuddering in with every exhalation.

“Sam.” His brother’s saying, venom lacing his words. “Get the fuck out, Sam. Close the motherfucking door!” His brother’s voice is so loud it should sting, but it’s not even a tenth as menacing as it should be, barely reaching Dean’s normal bellow.

It’s that that does it, and Sam slams the door open all the way, ignoring Dean’s wince when it clatters against the wall.

Dean’s in basketball shorts, and he’s holding a grey t-shirt in his hand, other one braced painfully against the crack in the sink.

He can see another layer of pajamas on the toilet, the hoodie the basketball team gave him. He never wears it, sleeves got too short, prefers the team jacket. Sam can see how much bigger (God Help Him) he’s gotten than his brother, bright snap of Dean’s eyes, unnatural blush of his cheeks.

“Dean.” Sam’s voice is dropping, not as deep as it will be, but low enough to command Dean’s attention. “Oh, Jesus, Dean, what’re you, are you not eatin’?” Sam’s hands wave out helplessly and Dean’s body jerks back from him, feet slipping in his brother’s attempt to regain balance.

“Sam, just fuck off. Alright?” He says this last in resignation, half-cocked effort, as if he knows that Sam’s never gonna let it die.

“You gotta be goddamned kidding me, Dean. How the fuck,” Sam grabs his hair by the roots and tugs til there are tears in his eyes. They’re spilling before he’s even thought about what to do with them, and he can’t wipe them away, can only hook his hands around the butterfly-knife ends of his brother’s hips and hold Dean in place.

“Oh, fuck, Dean, you don’t know what you look like, man.” Dean holds himself still, averts his gaze. Sam understands.

Dean knows. Whatever this is, his brother’s aware, has been aware, and has been doing his damnedest to make sure Sam doesn’t figure it out.

Sam pulls one hand up and inches it towards his brother’s face, cups his cheek entirely, and he can feel the shape of the bones underneath. His chest stutters again, and he’s quite abruptly aware that those wet gasps are coming from him, that his body is a betrayal, and he can barely see through the haze of his face.

“Sammy. Sammy.” Dean turns his head, so careful, in Sam’s grasp, leans the hollow of his cheek into Sam’s warm palm, voice reed-thin. “Stop cryin’ sweetheart,” and Dean sounds so brittle and desperate, voice cracking on the endearment, that Sam’s entire body shivers with a convulsion.

“SamSammySam.” Dean croons, slight frame inching closer to Sam’s broader physique. Sam moves his hands up higher, can wrap his arms _double_ around Dean’s emaciated waist and he just wants this to be over, wants to figure out how to die so he can just go on and get to it.

“What’s wrong with you, Dean?” Sam splutters the words out, cause he’s got a right to know, doesn’t he? How long’s this been going on?

Dean doesn’t move from Sam’s embrace _stranglehold_ but pulls Sam’s unresistant body alongside his own, keeps himself trapped against the brawn of Sam’s arms.

Sam loosens up enough to make sure Dean has room to sit on the edge of the bed, looks away from the way Dean’s stomach curls in on itself, no line of fat for defense. He’s gonna be sick.

“You uh, you know what Ewing’s Sarcoma is, Sammy?” Dean says it softly, breathes carefully so Sam has time to digest, and Sam wants to slap Dean across the face so hard his bones rattle, because this _does not belong to him._

“You got cancer, Dean? You telling me you have cancer right now, like this?” Sam’s a little shocked at the level of his voice, pitched so dark he might as well be his own worst enemy. Dean’s body slumps forward a fraction, and Sam reaches out for him, tugs his little-older brother into his side.

He’s not sure if his heart recalls the cadence it needs to beat.

“Doc told me something was wrong during the physical. The one we went to before tryouts for your team.” Dean pauses. “Remember, Sammy?”

Sam grunts. “Course.” Sam’s rocking back and forth on the bed, but he can’t control it, looks down at the way Dean hasn’t once looked at his eyes.

“They couldn’t have tested you then, Dean,” Sam spits out, voice like lead underwater. “That means you went back. Without me. You went back.” Sam doesn’t mean to sound so accusatory, but what kind of fucked up shit is this? What kind of Winchester code of fucking ethics does this fall under?

Dean’s nod is listless. “Ran ‘em all while you were at school. Had to drive to a different hospital, different ID.” Dean shrugs. “Didn’t want Dad to know.” Sam curls his fingers up tight, he can barely breathe. He’s silent for a second, tries to recall everything he knows about bone cancer.

It’s a decent amount, he’s always had a fairly eidetic memory, and he shuffles through it now, tries to remember everything. It’s crowded in places by the knowledge of Chimera, the best way to kill Preta, Latin and Greek translations. He buries his face in his hands.

“Radiograph,” he says, between bunched up digits. “CT scan and MRI.” Sam looks up, and Dean’s face is twisted in a familiar expression of annoyance and pride, but he also looks like he’s on the verge of laughter.

“Exactly. What the fuck else you got in that big brain of yours, Sammy?” Dean teases lightly. “Wrap it before you tap it,” Dean muses aloud, breath cutting short when Sam’s chest heaves with a trapped sob.

“Shut the fuck up,” Sam hisses, body angled away. “They find a tumor?” Sam grits out, and he feels, rather than sees Dean nod. “S’on my ribs. The pain is.” Sam sits up and tugs Dean closer again, his own emotions too volatile for him to contain.

“Sometimes,” Dean goes on, leaning heavily against Sam, “hurts so bad I can’t breathe. Just lay on the bed til you get home.” Dean stiffens, as if he recalls where he is, lingering on the edge of his brother’s too-big body.

Sam’s laugh is so wet-sounding that it makes Dean chuckle, and Sam tries to ignore the way his brother’s bones curve into his hands.

“We need to tell Dad,” Sam says firmly, gripping his brother tighter when he, predictably, tries to shift away.

“And you need chemo, whether we tell the bastard or not.” Sam’s words are too harsh, he doesn’t hate John, he never has, but it’s not like their Dad was there to notice that Dean was wasting away, internment camp skeleton.

_But you were_

Dean sighs, first sign of exasperation since the beginning.

“With what insurance, Sammy? What money we gonna use long-term to get me chemo?” Sam’s face contorts and he growls at his brother.

“I’ll fucking steal it, Dean. Mrs. Davis down the street, someone, I don’t give a shit.” Sam’s astonished to realize how honest he’s being. He’ll take every dime that old woman has, and she’s done nothing but bake him enough lemon squares to make him shit the fruit out straight.

Dean’s quiet next to him, shallow inhale, and it takes everything Sam owns to remain still beside him.

“No you won’t, Sam.” Sam opens his mouth in protest, but Dean waves him off. “I mean, I know you will, but I’m not gonna let you, feel me?” Dean says.

Sam laughs, swarm in his mouth. “You can’t exactly stop me, Dean. You’re dying.” He means for the words to slice, all crooked and deep, and he examines the wound he’s inflicted, the way Dean curls in on himself, and he wants to hack his own arm off, next.

“Think I don’t know, Sammy?” Dean whispers, and Sam thinks wildly that his brother must be bound to him, because Dean’s his shatterpoint.

Dean flops back against the bed, and Sam’s eyes chase the gentle bruises in the slopes of his ribs, spaces where the skin traces the bones it’s no longer strong enough to contain.

Sam’s eyes swim again and he leans down over his brother, shares his breath. Dean’s eyes are almost black, skinny ring of green, and his lashes brush against snow-clean cheeks.

“Good thing I won’t let you.”

-

John comes home once in the next month, doesn’t notice the way Dean’s about thirty or so pounds lighter, regardless of the layers he shrouds himself in. He lights up when he sees his boys though, gunslick scent to him, ash and brimstone.

He asks if Dean wants in on the next hunt he’s taking with Caleb, and Sam hunches himself over his schoolwork, lead snapping cleanly in two.

“Nah, sir, I’m good. Sam’s on the basketball team now, gotta look after him.” Dean offers it flippantly, hint of innuendo in his voice, but John’s too high off of a successful hunt, and the scent of his boys to properly examine it.

“Alright. Probably the last month here, anyway. Sammy’ll finish out the year.” John says. Sam can barely hear that above the buzz of so much relief in his ears, and Dean’s snorting and laughing with his Dad like he isn’t housing layers and layers of metastasizing cells in his body right now.

Dean doesn’t sleep at night anymore, can hear him get up and struggle to the bathroom, start crying, soft and then louder, so loud he’s got to know Sam’s awake, can hear him, but this is his way of making sure Sam stays back. Says, don’t follow me here, Sammy.

Sam does anyway, stays back, peeks through the crack in the door. Dean’s body curved over the toilet, and Sam can count the knobs in his spine, starts with the lumbar and works his way all the way up to the cervical. One, two, and then twenty-four.

Dean buckles under the weight of his own body, knees knocking against the porcelain. His breath is open and stained, and he’s moaning. His mouth stutters shut but Sam can still hear the sound from between wired teeth. He can still see the way Dean’s knee smacks against the floor as he seizes in agony.

On those nights, Sam curls his arms over and under his brother, supports his head like an infant, brushes his palm against Dean’s chest when he lifts. Dean’s body sags in his arms, head lolling, and he blinks, warm salt down Sam’s neck.

Sam doesn’t know whether it’s in acquiescence or understanding.

And Sam thinks to himself, of all the things he’s been taught to fear, why’d no one ever warn him about this?

Sam’s still doing all the things he was before, because Dean won’t let him stop, but Sam vomits every day before he comes inside, all behind the prickly bushes lining the rental home, shoves dirt over top with the soles of his Jordans.

His jeans start to fit a little looser.

-

He reads the third Anne book as he packs the last of the graveyard dirt into the shoebox. He presses it in tightly, around the edges, glances up once to ensure it’s not spilling over.

It’s called Anne of the Island, and Sam is less than pleased with this installment, because Anne’s making stupid decisions. Monumentally. He likes her friend Phil though, thinks she’s the only one with a decent head on her shoulders.

It’s almost Sam’s fifteenth birthday, and he thinks that Gilbert ought to wise up, cause Anne’s just as stupid as she’s ever been. Gilbert’ll make a good doctor. He sighs with contempt every time Anne runs away from the obvious, been staring her right in the face since she was a child.

He’s about aching with the knowing.

He can feel the paper-sharp edge of his photograph peeking from underneath the soil, shoves further down into the dirt with the edge of his thumb. It catches in his nail, and he picks it out, rolls it around, experimentally.

He pauses in his exploration to read, glances up at the chapter title. The Summons.

His knees knock against the edge of the bed when he sits, thighs splayed open, elbows digging in.

_I don’t want to die. I’m **afraid** to die._

Sam stutters over the words, mind jumbled and scrambling to form cohesion. He never cared for Ruby Gillis one way or the other, Anne’s girl drama that he, more or less, skipped in the effort of completion. He’s been working on this one series for years, now.

_Heaven must be very beautiful, of course, the Bible says so, but, Anne, it won’t be what I’m used to._

Sam’s crying so hard he’s got to brush the tears away from the page, fast as he makes them, and he wants to stop reading, but he’s never quit, he’s not starting now, regardless.

He slaps the book closed and his hands aren’t in his own control, because it slips from the nightstand and onto the floor, spine upending.

Well, then, she’s dead. She was so afraid, there was nothing in this world that could’ve prepared her to love and lose with such finality, when she was in the prime of life, innocence strangling like vines.

Sam glances over to where Dean’s sleeping, slice of moonlight hovering through the broken slat in the blinds. He barely makes a dent in the bed, body trembling with phantom pains.

_what I’m used to._

Sam shoves the cardboard box underneath the bed and stands, tiptoeing over to his brother. He tugs the blankets back just far enough to crawl in, fits his body so close to Dean they’re sharing air, big spoon, when he’s never done so before.

Dean’s nothing but bone left, can feel it in every jut of his hips, count tendons.

His brother’s head is too big for his neck, flushed with an ethereal beauty Sam doesn’t think he’d understand were Dean not riding the very edge of death. Why’s he got to be so beautiful if he’s only gonna flicker out?

Sam reaches up a hand, and it’s shaking, traces it over his brother’s temple, drags it further down until it’s caressing Dean’s lower lip, soft and inviting in sleep.

His entire body clenches in sudden tension, and, oh.

His legs lock in understanding and then he’s sobbing, nasty, wet sounds, slapping against his lungs, but he keeps them to a light tremor in his body, looks down at the only person he’s ever known how to love. Swallowed up in the bed by disease and Sam’s presence, so pale he’s transparent.

Dean’s head turns in his sleep and then his eyes flicker open, focus blearily on Sam’s damp face. “S’mmy,” Dean garbles, voice soft from sleep and frailty.

Sam’s leans down the last inch or so, presses dry lips to Dean’s damper ones, licks his tongue across the seam before he can properly think about it. Dean’s body arches up, and the sheet becomes untangled around his middle.

Sam’s broad palm brushes against his stomach, carefully below his ribcage, where he houses most of his pain.

Dean whimpers into his mouth, his name, or a curse, Sam can’t tell.

Sam’s got his whole body caged in his hands, can feel the fear-stutter of Dean’s heart, the slow twist of his brittle legs.

“Ah, ah, ah, Sam,” his brother gets out, turns his head away, so weak that Sam can’t help the tear that connects with Dean’s nose.

“Sammy. Jesus, Sam. M’alright. Right here.” Dean says.

He reaches up a hand to cup Sam’s face, but it falls short, back onto the comforter, and Dean’s mortified. He can’t lift his arms for very long anymore. Sam’s cry is louder this time, and Dean tenses up in Sam-concern.

Sam presses salty lips to Dean’s again, smothers his brother with them, pushes his brother’s mouth wide-open, spears him on his tongue and delves forward. He cups Dean’s head in between his palms, rough calluses against the gentle slope of his brother’s too-hot ears.

He nibbles at Dean’s bottom lip, gasps when Dean’s hands wrap themselves into Sam’s t-shirt, holding on.

Sam snakes a hand down between them, can feel the hard line of Dean’s erection, poking at the lower half of his stomach. It twitches, just at the shadow of Sam’s hand, and Dean’s blinking his eyes open, Sam can feel it against his face.

“Sammy. Oh God, Sam. You gotta stop, man. You gotta get in your own bed.” Dean’s voice is borderline frantic, sounds so raw and ill that Sam bulldozes right past.

“I love you,” he hisses, bitter-hot into Dean’s collarbone. “It’s you. It’s you. When you start to think it’s not you, you remember it always will be.” Sam bites down, gentle, into Dean’s neck, soothes the sting with a quick swipe of his tongue, flat side.

Dean’s hips jerk up involuntarily, flop back down heavily with the exertion.

“Sammy--” his brother chokes out, and Sam’s hand closes around Dean’s erection, tight and warm underneath the prison of boxers.

He strokes with the side of his palm, can’t get a good angle this way.

Dean’s crying now, Sam can tell, baby-bird tears. Dean can barely get enough air in his lungs, and Sam licks up their combined tear trail, feeds it back to his older brother with an open mouth.

He shoves Dean’s boxers down to mid-thigh, they catch on the knee of his left leg, but it’s low enough for Dean’s dick to slide free, and Dean’s wheezing, he’s so hard.

Sam curls his fingers back around, smooth glide from base to crown, twists his wrist sharply at the top. He runs his nail across the frenulum, listens to Dean’s smooth hiss of pleasure.

Sam’s still crying, less frantically, but it’s still caught far up in his throat.

He leans down, sucks another mark into Dean’s neck, brand of possession, can see the Church in his brother’s sightless eyes, the way he’s the Holy Trinity Sam’s always prayed to.

He’s not prepared for Dean to come silently, thin body twitching between them, seizure of limbs, neck thrown back against the pillow.

Sam’s not breathing, it’s too much, and Dean’s eyes open a fraction when he comes down, lips bitten swollen. His voice sounds wrecked when he speaks, and he’s holding himself very still.

“I can’t--” his voice peters out, and he closes his eyes, ashamed. Sam uses the clean edge of the blanket to clean his brother off--he can’t leave right now--and rearranges them, so that Dean’s nestled back against the brand of Sam’s dick, ignored and unnecessary.

“You can,” Dean flounders, unnaturally. “If you want.” Sam kisses Dean, just behind his ear, and he can barely breathe out of his nose, he’s so congested.

“M’always gonna keep you,” Sam whispers, and that’s that.

-

She gives Sam ten years.

He thinks that’s a good deal.

He researched, of course, understood that that was standard fare, but there’s a lot of time until he’s 24, almost 25. She kisses him soundly, and he touches his lips carefully, wonders why that tastes familiar.

Vomits right in the center of the Trap when he finally understands how to open his eyes.

-

Dean looks better, almost immediately. Can see it in the hunch of his brother’s shoulders, increased appetite. There’s a general light in his eyes that had remained unaccounted for.

His brother looks him over carefully, green eyes focused on the way Sam’s shirt clings to his shoulders, hot flush of arousal and shame, dirty cocktail.

Sam smiles, crack in the sun, nothing but illumination, because Sam was born used to Dean.

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Song lyric taken from Faith, by Marillion.

Sammy learned how to walk at nine months old, right around the time he started trying to figure out how to take his diaper off. Eventually, he succeeded in that, too.

Dean remembers it vividly, probably because he was the only one home at the time.

His father was at the grocery store, and Sammy was sitting on the floor, just by the edge of Dean’s bed. Soft strands of brown hair clinging to his forehead, fat fists hitting the floor again and again in his excitement.

Dean dances for Sammy when there’s no one else around.

He’ll do it for Sammy even when their Dad’s around, but the baby never seems to want it then, lies in the center of the bed and stares up up, is he counting the water spots on the ceiling?

Dean thinks Sammy is a very smart baby.

Dean dances the same way Mommy used to dance for him, shakes his hips in wide semi-circles, bends his head forward, touch of his chin to his collarbone. He wiggles his butt too, for good measure. Sammy eats it right up, dents of happiness in baby-thick cheeks.

Dean flings his hands out, fingers close to Sam’s face, and his little brother gurgles so heavily he almost tips onto his side. Dean’s mouth is stretched so wide open it hurts just a little, and he starts singing, just a bit, under his breath.

Sam lights up at that, smacks his diapered bottom against the carpet, drags it in loose circles.

If Sammy had the coordination, Dean thinks he’d be clapping, too.

His Mommy used to sing him to sleep, and he assumes Sammy too, but the baby won’t remember that, Dean thinks, suddenly.

He almost stops dancing, cause he can’t really breathe, and it fills him up all wrong, makes his insides twist up.

He sings anyway, a little closer to Sammy, pitched low cause he’s not sure he’s got the words right. He’s always right on the edge of sleep when he hears this song, and it’s hard to think that he’s never gonna have his Mom sing it again.

Not even once.

“What I have here in my hand, is like faith, but not faith.”

Dean knows this first part, he’s mostly waking up in the morning when Mommy sings it, humming around the kitchen like Dean isn’t awake and ready to come down, got a new bed, Daddy painted it for him.

Dark blue, Daddy says it’s a fast one, Corvette. (Dean will learn later that it’s a ‘57 Chevy Corvette, John modeled his bed after the design. It doesn’t change anything, though.)

Sammy settles at the first line, eyes squinty, like he can really feel it, and Dean can see all the way into his mouth. He's touched Sammy’s toothless gums before and thinks they’re a little gross, but not a lot, cause it’s Sammy, after all.

Dean’s not looking when Sammy first stands, and he’ll always be pissed about it. Sammy uses the sheet to pull himself up, so smart, Dean thinks wildly, doesn’t know how he’s supposed to have a baby brother that’s this smart and he’s not even one, yet.

He’s only nine months, Dean remembers, and he doesn’t have a Mama to teach him about how to do this stuff, not like Dean does. Did.

It’s hard to remember, and sometimes, like now, he gets confused. Hurts his head. Hurts.

Sammy’s holding onto the the trailing edge of the sheet when Dean turns back around, body still moving in an improvised dance, not as good as it was when he first started, he admonishes himself.

Sam’s drooling some. Dean reflexively uses the sheet to swipe at his face, another corner when all that does it smear it around.

Sammy releases the sheet and reaches out for Dean instead, who is just out of reach. Dean holds himself real still, he’s not even breathing. It’ll scare Sammy. Then he’ll fall and never wanna try again, and then Dean’ll have to carry his little brother everywhere, forever.

Not that he won’t do it, Sammy’s only got little legs, and not a lot of shoes, Dean thinks he could do it. He’s already a lot taller.

Sammy walks three steps by himself when he manages to latch his fist onto Dean’s shirt, wobbles in place, almost tugs Dean down on top of him.

“Ah Jeez, Sammy! You did it!” The words come out louder than Dean meant, but Sammy doesn’t care, doesn’t bother him, little boy with stained eyes.

Sammy’s still holding on so tight when Dad comes in, doesn’t look up cause he’s shaking the snow off of his sleeves, nudging salt back against the doorframe with the side of his boots.

Dean looks over at him, can see all the bags in his arms, way his Daddy’s shoulders fall in, real hard around his ears, like it hurts him to stand up tall.

His Daddy don’t smile anymore.

Dean wants to tell him, but the words get carved up all strange in his throat and he feels like he’s gonna cry again. Sammy saves him the trouble, sunshine burning.

He gurgles so loudly against Dean’s chest that his father turns, fast, like he’s scared, shoulders squared. His head dips when he sees they’re okay, it’s alright.

He sets the bags down, clink against his father’s thighs as he shifts, then his eyes snap back in their direction, and he’s so close that Dean staggers a little, wraps his hand around Sammy’s itty bitty fist.

“He’s standin’, Dean!” His Daddy whispers, not so loud that it’ll scare Sammy. “You teach him that, Dean?” Daddy’s hand, warm and solid on top of his head, and Dean squirms with pleasure.

“Walking, Daddy,” Dean adds, and it’s so hard to push the words out through the weight in his throat that they almost don’t make it, he almost swallows them whole.

His Daddy makes a funny sound in his throat then, when he hears Dean speak, and then he’s dropping to his knees, muttering under his breath, passes his fingers round and round Dean’s throat like he’s searching for the words themselves.

It makes Dean feel funny.

Daddy picks them both up then, supports Sammy’s head in the crook of his arm, other hand free for Dean’s waist.

His Daddy shakes with laughter, but his face is wet, and Dean’s squished, checks to see if Sammy can breathe.

How’re you supposed to be happy and sad at the same time?

-

He cries, a lot.

In the beginning. It fucking aches, spreads through his body like a claiming and it’s licking him up from the inside.

He can’t eat, he can’t sleep, and the only time he can breathe is when Sam’s at school, on that damn team Dean’s so grateful for, because that’s two more free hours a day that he gets.

He wants Sammy here, always did, but he can’t do it, he can’t stomach it when Sam’s there, looking at and through him. Like he’s never seen Dean before.

For the first time in his life, Dean has no idea what to do. He’s horrified, and it doesn’t sit well.

He sits in the waiting room, same as every Thursday, cause he can’t think that ignoring the problem’ll make it disappear. He’s never subscribed to that particular theory. Problem is, he usually takes care of the issue, violently.

Can’t fight himself, he thinks, ruefully.

His fingers stretch out against his jeans, pluck at the holes lining the seams. It’s not artfully done, he didn’t buy them that way, never would, but these people won’t know.

They can’t smell the sulfur in his bones, poison of Sammy in his blood. Can’t test for what it is, figure out how to tell him what he’ll become.

Was becoming, after all, he’s dying.

They like his money. His insurance is pristine, Blue Cross Blue Shield, and Tom Sanderson’s funds are ever-ready. Dean likes to think that they see him often enough to recognize that he could never be a Tom, what’s that even supposed to look like?

The guy’s name makes him crawl in his skin.

Why the fuck is this happening to him?

He’s done right, maybe not by everyone, but by his Dad. By his Sammy. This is gonna cut him deep, at the knees, right when Sammy’s talking about triathlons, and mathlete competitions. Nose buried so far in his books he can smell the damn history.

Chattering to him about the symbolism, like Dean’s gonna suddenly break down, full-bodied appreciation for classic literature.

He steals ‘em anyway. Shoves them in backpacks and pockets, hard spines digging into his hips. It’s a stupid thing to do, to get caught for, but he can’t stop. Tethers him along gracelessly, and Sammy’s gonna tell him all about the Black Thing, four times in a row.

It’s unhealthy, is what it is. Kid’s gonna grow up to be a freaky genius, though, Dean can already see it.

He snorts, convulsively grabs at his kneecap, hardness juts out to hit his fingers. He’s getting real intimate with his bones, and ain’t that a bitch?

They tell him the same thing, and Dean braces up, smiles bright, eyes sharp. The nurses look at him, strange conglomerate of emotions. Pity, first, and Dean wants to pound them til they bleed, and they’ll never look at him like that again.

They’re attracted to him, squirm at the light of his hair, sea-green of his eyes, and they want his fingers, his mouth, his dick. He remembers what that’s like, anyway.

But he’s stage IV. It’s metastasized to his lungs, and

_Mr. Sanderson, there are signs of it spreading further, into your bone marrow. That’s serious, sir. You’ve got to consider chemo. We can administer it via injection._

Dean stops coming.

They’re gonna start wondering why he doesn’t want to save his own life. Why, if the treatment is generally successfully, he’s refusing.

How’s he supposed to explain that he’s too busy with another life to worry about what might become of his own? He can’t lose his hair.

He’s already losing his body, it’s falling apart on him.

Ribs are littered with bruises, like prizes, and Jesus Christ, the pain’s debilitating. Can’t fucking breathe for it, sleep for it, wonders how long til it takes him out.

But there’s the crux of the matter, he can’t leave Sammy, that way, either.

He’s got to wear basketball shorts under his jeans, now.

-

Sammy’s fingers reach out to touch, flutter of digits so slight that Dean wouldn’t feel it if he wasn’t looking.

“Oh, Jesus, Dean, what’re you, are you not eatin’?” And his brother sounds so fucked up that Dean scrambles away, remembers his coordination is shot to shit, you can count all his bones, probably see straightaway to his heart.

Sam’s crying, Dean doesn’t even think the kid knows it, but his face is wet with it, burning up hot.

That’s the worst part, Dean thinks.

That Sammy’s gotta know, that his boy has to be all torn up with the knowing. Fourteen years old, tall as fuck, can’t barely fit in doorways and beds.

He’s so good at basketball, honed from years of reflexes, one hand on the ball, other holding a book. Sam’s too big and shiny to be trapped with Dean. Scent of cloying sickness and decay.

Dean remembers sports, better at football than he ever was on a court, although he was pretty damn good out there too. Dean wants to attack, more than he wants to dance, though.

Sammy’s lithe when it comes to it, quick-stepping in battle and in the game, liquid. Little brother likes football almost as much, chose basketball for the lesser chance of injury.

Dean thinks he’s more suited for that. Sam still pauses at impact, slight hesitation that has John Winchester bemoaning the lack of actual combat training.

Dean knows it’s not like that. Sammy’s head’s just buried too far into books and freedom, and he’s not wired the same way. Doesn’t mean that Dean doesn’t do all he can to rectify that, cause he just wants to keep him, and if that’s selfish, then he guesses he’s Scrooge.

Sam’ll never be that way, though. Dean knows it, gravel-rough approach, and he really doesn’t want his brother to burn.

Dean’ll blaze hot enough for the both of them.

His bones ache. Starts outward, in his ribs. There aren’t adequate words to describe it, and he can see Sammy’s eyes, little boy prairie fields, he wants to understand.

He tries to think about a monster, comparatively, but he can’t make Sammy see what it feels like. He knows Sam thinks it ebbs and flows, and on some level, his brother’s right. Problem is, it doesn’t actually ever subside.

He’s been living constantly with the brittle ache, and he can’t exhale for damage of it.

He’s not supposed to move, to fucking hunt, because that’ll exacerbate the tumor, the problem. They’ve got him locked on the sidelines when he’s a starter and he doesn’t want any of this. He can’t fucking fight, he’s worthless this way, and that’s what’s eating him alive, never mind the degeneracy of the disease.

It feels like no air. Like when you take a punch to the stomach, and the impact renders you breathless. And you’re groaning, your body is doubled over, looking for air, dragging, dragging, but that’s nothing for you. There’s only the leech of blood and the memory of oxygen, and you think, this is it. This is how I die.

Dean laughs, thick sob around the mirth, because if only it was that easy.

Why can’t it just take him out already?

It’s like a separate heartbeat, and his body runs hot with the pain of it, the same adrenaline rush you get when you first hurt yourself, really badly. Covers your body in white-hot agony, and Dean thinks he could excuse himself for vomiting at midnight.

Sam won’t let up, and he can’t seem to stop crying, working his face up til it’s screwed, and that’s worse than this parasite inside of him.

Sammy huddled to him on the bed, pulling blankets up and around his neck.

Sam cooking, miracle of miracles, mac n cheese, cut up hot dogs and canned beans.

It’s good, even though Dean can’t keep any of it down, vomits it over side of the bed, into the trash can Sammy bought and lined for this purpose.

Deep voice, humanized by the crackle of little brother in puberty. “S’okay, Dean. You don’t have to finish it.”

And Dean, stubborn as mules.

“Fucking made it, Sammy. What kinda brother would I be?” Sam’s face, shuttered blank, and his eyes pass over the exposed clavicle, down to where Dean’s ribs start to shape themselves under the thin barrier of skin.

Dean can see his brother’s mouth, spit-shine and anger, and Dean knows what he’s gonna say, the smartass, and Dean starts to laugh before he even says it, and that just spurs Sammy on.

“Alive, you fuckwad.” Sam says. His hand comes out, delicate fingers, violinist, Dean thinks, abstractly. Dexterous enough, but callused at the repetitive motion.

Sam’s hand comes down on the sheets beside him, three times, reverberating smacks, muffled by fabric.

“I want you to fucking live! Dean!” Sam says. “Is that so bad? One of us has to. Jesus, Dean, one of us has to give a shit.” Sam’s voice is tinny, and Dean wants to block him out, tries to lift his hands to his ears, gives up before he’s even halfway there.

“Fuck!” Dean yells, surprises himself.

His hands twitch by his sides, and his fucking ribs, Christ. “Sammy. Sammy.” He can barely get the words out, he’s sweating so bad, and he locks his traitorous hands next to his sides, bites down on his lower lip until he can taste the fear mixed in with the blood.

Sammy knows though, fucking genius that he is. Always just, gets it.

Sam scrambles up onto his knees, leans down over Dean, hovering really. His bangs flop into his eyelids and he’s getting so big. He’s so broad that sometimes Dean forgets he’s just fourteen, floundering through life with that special innocence only Sam could retain.

How the kid still manages to look wide-eyed and afraid when he’s seen so much worse, killed so much more, floors Dean so hard it almost knocks him out of his own anguish. Almost.

Sam’s nothing if not a quick study, and the kid shoves the blankets down to Dean’s hips, resolutely doesn’t flinch at the emaciation of his older brother’s chest. His fingers circle the space, where Sam knows it hurts most, and shoves.

He’s not gentle, and the kid can be, when he’s of a mind to. He knows Dean, though, and Dean gasps out, eyes welling up and spilling over inadvertently.

Dean doesn’t want that.

This is gonna be his pain, if he’s got to have it, and he’ll twist it however he sees fit. There’s more misery, now, it’s not localized to his ribs anymore, but he doesn’t want to tell Sam, see the resignation in his brother’s eyes.

It’s trickling out, water from a sieve, and his pelvis hitches with the wounds now, as well.

Why’s he got to feel death so acutely? Why isn’t it enough to just live it?

Sam’s hands are capable, and he moves one, punches down on Dean’s hips, enough force to send Dean’s body ricocheting off the bed.

“Sam,” Dean whisper-groans, and his brother doesn’t answer, keeps moving, pressing, until finally, all Dean can feel are Sam’s hands, poking and prodding, surety of experience and Winchester gumption.

Sam doesn’t want a lot of things, but he’ll never half-ass them.

Dean likes to think he did that. Gave Sam that.

Sam knows when it’s done, removes his body and settles back down, next to Dean. Dean’s face is wet and he could kill himself right now, can’t fucking wipe it away. Has to lie there, blinking up at the popcorn ceiling, count his heart rate back down.

Sam cleans him up with the top edge of the blanket, won’t make eye contact.

“You’re a special kind of asshole, Dean.” Sam hisses, doesn’t stumble over the sentiment. Dean chuckles, even though it hurts his lungs.

“Gonna have to get more creative than that, Sammy. Heard worse from Mrs. Daggett's husband.” Dean curls his mind round the memory.

“Came right when he busted in the room, Sammy,” Dean clucks, shimmies his body so it’s more comfortable on the mountain of pillows Sam’s got him stacked against.

“Didn’t know she was married, wouldn’t’ve done if I did, but shit, I ain’t got a better cuss out, except from Dad, probably.” Dean closes his eyes at the memory, shrugs one shoulder, wasteful use of energy.

“Was worth it,” he mutters.

His eyes snap open a second later, shadow of Sam’s hard body blocking out the sun, and it would be comical, posturing of the little brother he could tear down with one hand, when he was healthy.

His body remembers that, even if his mind refuses.

Sammy doesn’t look angry, even as he braces himself on sun-warm arms, workouts and practice, hair tucked behind one air, stubborn bangs flopping into his left eye.

“Jesus, Dean,” he says, calm, and that’s what does it for Dean, what makes him shut his mouth and twist his neck back so he can fully meet Sam’s eyes. His brother’s face is a little damp, leftover malice, but his eyes are so locked up, that’s what scares him.

He can read Sammy like his brother eats up his own books, tucks things he thinks Dean’ll tease him for up under his arms, shoved under beds and bookbags.

Sam’s lip curls when he speaks, and it’s a statement, not that Dean would have the words in his vocabulary to answer, if it were a question.

“You think I’m gonna let you die.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm toying around with an idea for a remix of this, exchanging Sam and Dean's roles. I feel like it would give another viewpoint. Thanks for reading!


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